


amputation

by zeraparker



Series: the one he can't deny [3]
Category: Formula E RPF, Motorsport RPF
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt, Gen, Honesty, Hurt, M/M, Revelations, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-09 06:09:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19882897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeraparker/pseuds/zeraparker
Summary: Fuck, he’s waited too long, let too many distractions keep him from doing the one thing he was supposed to do: be honest."Is it true?" Three small words and a photo taken off a screen showing the email he’d read a drafted version of the week before in Stuttgart, Porsche’s letter of intent of fulfilling all the demands to nullify Andre’s contract with Techeetah, to buy him free.__How Jev found out that Andre was leaving to go to Porsche.Set between Bern and New York.





	amputation

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, just... all the angst. You are warned. My take on how Jev found out.
> 
> Caaaaaan be read as part of the 'the one he can't deny' verse, but basically this version is going to be my headcanon on how it got revealed for all future fic I write, so yeah. idek.

3\. amputation

/ampjʊˈteɪʃ(ə)n/ noun

the action of surgically cutting off a limb

Andre looks at the email, the images from the photoshoot in Stuttgart the day before, and feels like a fraud.

He tries to see them from an outsider’s perspective: the new Porsche livery he’s wearing, the white car in the background, a glimpse of what the final livery they will settle on might look like. The stupid video they recorded with his helmet on. He remembers the scripted answers held up on large boards next to the camera, grateful that they couldn’t catch his facial expressions while he read them out; he wonders whether that was the whole idea of the helmet in the first place, a workaround to his inability to keep his face from showing exactly what he was thinking when he’d read the answers he was supposed to give.

Neel had been there, glowing with happiness at them being reunited as a team, and it had been the only thing Andre could genuinely smile about without a million thoughts crashing in from all sides. He knows that the close-up photos that the PR folks eventually chose are those they had taken when Neel had made an off-camera joke about the suit looking better on Andre then on him.

He tries not to think about how Jev will react when he sees them. He tries not to think about what Jev will think when he looks at them.

He still can’t imagine what Jev will say when he tells him.

And tell him Andre must.

There’s a reckless thrill at the idea of just forwarding one of the pictures to Jev, maybe tag on a _u mad, bro?_ just for the sake of it.

But that isn’t how it’s supposed to be done. He doesn’t want it to be just a text message. He should call him. They’ve been friends for two years now, and no matter how badly his mind had gone over the edge during the last weeks, it isn’t really Jev’s fault. He owes him as much.

Fuck.

The phone feels heavy in his sweaty hand as he thumbs through his contacts to his favourites list, the little star next to Jev’s name. His thumb hovers over the connect call button. But he can’t. He just can’t do it. Carl’s name is on that list too, further at the top, and he has a moment of thought to call him instead, to ask him to tell Jev and somehow get around the whole business of dealing with the immediate fallout. But that isn’t right either. Carl shouldn’t know first, not before Jev, and he shouldn’t have to do the dirty work for Andre. By God, Andre has been enough work for Carl as it is.

Fuck.

Andre curses out loud, not like anyone’s going to hear anyway, the gauze curtains fluttering in the open doors to the veranda the only movement inside the house apart from his own caged wanderings. He tosses the phone onto the table. The noise makes Max lift his head from his paws where he’s sprawled on the cooling mat Andre bought for him to battle the relentless heat, but even getting up seems too much work for the lazy beast. Andre leaves him inside while he strips out of his tank top and tosses it onto the couch as he passes it, his mind set on the cool water of the pool instead of the pressing matter at hand.

Fuck, he’s waited too long, let too many distractions keep him from doing the one thing he was supposed to do: be honest.

_Is it true?_ Three small words and a photo taken off a screen showing the email he’d read a drafted version of the week before in Stuttgart, Porsche’s letter of intent of fulfilling all the demands to nullify Andre’s contract with Techeetah, to buy him free.

They had joked about it after Lemans, Andre trying to test the waters at the end of the week before leaving for Bern, after his meltdown and the subsequent message to Porsche the next day when he’d still lain curled up in Carl’s bed, the message that not even Carl knew of Andre sending that would set the wheels in motion to buy him out. The later tense air at the factory when Jev had been so caring about his state of mind, still fragile himself; that Andre had shrugged off with a vague explanation about exhaustion and too much wine over dinner. The news that Porsche had made an official inquiry into the demands of Andre’s contract situation only hours after Andre had told Porsche he’d his will to move unbeknownst to the people in the room, had sent a smile around the conference table, everyone knowing how high the price for Andre’s head was.

It’s a power move: Porsche didn’t even haggle.

The sheer audacity of just handing over the money Techeetah asked for, like a million more or less wouldn’t matter in their wallets at all.

It’s done, and Jev knows.

Andre stares at the screen of his phone like he could take it back, make that email disappear, call Jev and tell him no, they got it wrong, he isn’t leaving. But he can’t lie about this anymore, least of all to himself. And Jev knows.

He hits the call button on his phone. It connects after the first ring.

“I’m sorry,” he brings out around the lump in his throat.

There’s only strained silence for a long moment.

“Fuck you.” The line disconnects, one long beep. Andre can feel the sting of tears behind his eyes, resolutely blinking them away. Fuck. The phone drops from his hand, clatters to the floor noisily. Fuck. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen, and it’s his own fault for waiting too long, for being a coward.

_I just drove him to the airport_ is the only warning he gets, the little unhappy emoji Carl tagged to the end of it.

It leaves him with just enough time to completely freak out, take Max for a walk to calm himself down, and channel some of his anxiety into setting up one of the guest bedrooms when he realises that it will be late afternoon by the time Jev arrives. _If he’ll want to stay at all_ , a nagging voice in his head tells him, and he honestly doesn’t know, can’t even start to imagine what he’ll face upon Jev’s arrival. A punch, probably (deserved). A lot of accusations (deserved too). He wonders if getting drunk in preparation of dealing with whatever fallout Jev brings along would be an appropriate response, whether it would make Jev more or less mad.

In the end, Jev arrives before Andre can make up his mind (screw you, Carl, and your private airplane).

The amount of time it takes for Andre to buzz open the gate and allow Jev to walk up to the house, whoever drove him here already disappeared down the gravel road outside the property, doesn’t help at all with Andre’s nerves. He can see the tense set of Jev’s shoulders as he struts up towards the front door, backpack slung over his shoulder, the tight clench of his jaw when he gets close enough. He’s got the neck of a bottle of vodka choked in his wrist, the label shredded from blunt, anxious fingernails and brandishes it like a weapon.

At least Andre knows he isn’t the only one who doesn’t want to deal with this sober.

“We’re not going to accept,” is all Jev says as he walks past Andre into the house, barely even glancing at him. He toes off his sneakers as he goes, leaving them where they land in his wake, tossing his backpack onto an empty chair. The bottom of the bottle hits the wood of the dining table with a loud bang, making Max give a yelp from where he’s pattered up to Jev’s side, tail wagging eagerly, and Andre hates him a little bit.

Andre shakes his head, irritation making his anxiety turn outward. “It’s done, Jev.”

Jev just shakes his head, leaving the bottle on the table in favour of going into the open kitchen like he owns the place, heading straight for the cupboard that holds glasses to take two down and return to the dining area. “We’re gonna raise the stakes. They need to pay up if they want to have you.” The force with which he opens the bottle almost sends the cork flying across the room, making Andre cringe.

“You can’t. The conditions were in the contract, you confirmed it to them last we-“

“Fuck the conditions!” Jev lashes out, his voice suddenly an octave higher, loud in the otherwise quiet room. It startles Jev as much as it grinds on Andre’s nerves. Max slinks away through the open veranda door. The vodka sloshes over the rim of the glass as Jev pours it generously. “Seriously, fuck them,” he mutters, then lifts the glass to his lips and takes a big gulp.

“It’s done,” Andre repeats, everything more complex too hard to bring over his lips, and fuck he wants that alcohol, he wants to down the whole bottle of it.

With an exhale that seems to deflate him Jev drops down onto a chair, almost missing it. He lets his head hang, looking down at the glass he’s cradling in his hands. “You’re an arsehole,” he says, his voice doing that hitchy thing that Andre had heard first hand close to his ear last year when Jev hadn’t had himself under control after winning the championship, sobbing in his arms when all the stress dropped off him after crossing the line, still sticky and gross from sweat and champagne, his nomex clinging to his body, heat emanating from every cell of his body, hidden away in their drivers room in the pits.

Andre’s chest clenches painfully. He takes a step closer to the table, the need for that drink the only thing to keep the nausea at bay, but then Jev looks up and the wetness has spilled from his eyes down his cheeks, his skin red and puffy like it hasn’t been the first tears he’s shed today. He looks so hurt, so small and aching and lost. “Wasn’t it enough?”

It pulls the floor from beneath Andre’s feet, and he can’t hold himself up anymore, his own legs giving way.

He ends up on the floor, on his hands and knees right by Jev’s feet, his own body shaking with sobs as all the tension of the past weeks is released in one ugly wave, a penitent desperate for absolution. “I’m sorry,” the words are wrenched from his lips, like they are peppered with barbed wire, cutting him open from the inside. He clenches his hands into fists, thumping them against the polished concrete floor in a search for an outlet.

Fingers dig into the back of his shirt collar, dragging it tight across his throat, choking him as Jev pulls him up and towards himself until Andre is kneeling between his legs, his face pressed into Jev’s stomach, his arms around Jev’s slim waist. His fingers dig into Jev’s back painfully, every unsteady breath he draws in full of Jev’s warm body scent, the soft fabric of his t shirt soaking up Andre’s tears, clinging to his wet cheeks. Jev is curled over him, precariously leaned forwards almost boneless slumped over Andre’s back, Jev’s hands clenching and unclenching, hitting him a couple times with the same impotent urge for a fight, to bruise and draw blood and _hurt_.

Jev’s breath is hot through the fabric of Andre’s shirt, damp over his shoulder blades with how Jev has curled around him, pushing himself towards Andre to cling to him, to clutch him close at the same time. He’d been sitting precariously close to the edge of the chair to begin with; under any other circumstances, without the way his muscles are shaking, Andre could easily hold them both up, but his body is weak and Jev’s next attempt to clutch him closer against himself sees their balance falter. Still shrouded in the warm darkness of Jev’s stomach Andre can feel the world tilt around him as he stumbles backwards, dragging Jev along into an ungraceful fall, one of Jev’s fists smashed between the floor and his back before Jev can catch himself against the concrete, the painful thud of his own head against the floor. It winds him, makes him open his eyes and take in a startled breath seeing Jev above him through the blur of the tears making his eyelashes heavy, Jev’s knees on either side of his stomach, Jev’s hands braced on either side of his head, Jev’s scent and warmth all around him, Jev’s face close to his.

“I love you.”

Andre doesn’t mean to say what he’s thought for about a year now, ever since that moment of no turning back, when all fun and games suddenly weren’t fun anymore, when his stupid, fucking heart got involved. He says the words he’s only ever allowed over his lips muffled into his pillow or fist as he’d got himself off to thoughts way too sweet for the sordid act of a quick orgasm. They spill from his lips now like blood gushing from a lethal wound, no chance to hold them in, to take them back. He pants, chest rising and falling like he’s just run a marathon as he stares up at Jev leaning over him in a hundred fantasies come true, the genuine surprise blooming over his features, the harsh inhale of breath.

Jev stares at him, his mouth opening and closing a couple times like he wants to say something, like he can’t find the words. He shifts his weight onto one hand, reaching up with the other to stroke his fingers through his hair distraught, then pushes himself back, sitting up. He looks like he’s been punched, like _you’ve been disqualified from Lemans_ , like new connections being made in his brain, puzzle pieces falling into place.

“I love you too?” Jev tries out the words Andre had ached to hear for so long now, his voice shaky and turning up at the end, turning them into a question like he’s trying out their taste on his tongue, their shape on his lips. Andre closes his eyes, feels more tears spill down his cheeks to drop onto the harsh concrete floor. They’re the words he’d longed to hear, and he can feel the genuine intent behind them, the affection Jev has for him, the bond that grew between them that neither of them saw coming, back when they met in Lemans for the first time two years ago, the depth of their connection catching both of them by surprise. He can hear that connection and Jev’s childlike need for him in every syllable, but it’s not the same, it’s not the same love that Andre feels for him, and the dichotomy threatens to tear him apart.

“Let me up,” Andre murmurs, closing his eyes to wait for Jev to refuse, but to his surprise Jev clambers off him, sitting dazedly by his side. Andre pushes himself up, gets to unsteady feet, feeling vertigo at the sudden shift in perspective.

The bottle of vodka on the table is half empty what with the large amount filled into the two glasses next to it. He reaches for the bottle, takes a swig, keeps clutching it in his hands as he walks up to the doors leading out to the veranda.

Max’s leash is still lying in a twisted coil on the bench cushion outside and he picks it up, clicks it automatically into the loop at the collar Max is wearing when the dog runs up to him, head ducked, tail wagging carefully. He isn’t even wearing shoes, but he barely registers the pinpricks of small stones beneath his feet as he walks down the stone steps into the garden, across the packed dirt that still needs work to turn into a proper landscape, down to the high wall that surrounds the property. A small door behind the pool house leads out into the fields, and he barely manages to close it behind himself and take a couple steps down the dirt road until his legs give out again and he sinks down with his back to the wall, his legs drawn up to his chest to wrap his arms around them, hold himself together as best as he can.

Jev’s body is a dark shadow by the pool, illuminated only faintly by the garden lamps behind him. He’s sitting on the edge, his shins in the water that’s rippling slightly as he moves his feet.

Andre feels lightheaded, the vodka sloshing unpleasantly in his otherwise empty stomach; he hasn’t eaten anything since this morning, since that first text message confirming that Jev knew, and the alcohol is easily going to his head. Max putters away quickly, running past Jev up to the house, and the movement makes Jev lift his head to look around the garden, falling entirely still as he notices Andre a couple meters away.

“What do you want?” Jev calls out, his voice quiet but carrying over the silence only enhanced by the distant chirp of insects. Andre moves towards him slowly, wearily. Exhaustion is making his body heavy; he’s aching all over, a tense searing pain along his skin like he’s shedding it, ripping himself to shreds. “Is it money? I’ll give you whatever they pay you. Hell, I’ll give you more.” His voice is slightly slurred, but his eyes are bright when he turns his head to follow Andre’s path across the garden.

Andre shakes his head. “It’s not about the money.”

“It’s the team, then. You can have it, part of it. You’ll get shares.” He spits the words out like they’re acid, like they’d gone sour in his mouth mulling over them during the hours Andre was gone.

“It’s not about the team.” Irritation flares within him again, but the day has seeped him off adrenaline, leaving him hollow and tired and unable to deal.

Jev stares at him for a long moment, biting his lip. “Lorene asked me about this, you know. About us. After Santiago.” He opens his mouth to add more, then bites his lips, shakes his head. “Did you mess up your bookings on purpose?”

It’s like a slap in the face. “No.”

Jev quirks an eyebrow at him, the corner of his mouth twitching unpleasantly, and Andre realises what it must look like in retrospect now: no hotel room for Andre, Jev not even thinking twice about offering to share his double for the one night until one would free up, the jetlag making them both tired; the comfortable domesticity of getting ready for the night, the hotel mattress soft and sagging in the middle. Andre remembers it all so clearly, how he’d waited in the dark, lying awake while he listened to Jev slowly falling asleep next to him, settling beneath the duvet, committing every single moment to his memory knowing he would never have that again; how he’d woken up in the morning with Jev taking up more than his share of the bed, clingy like an octopus how he’d wrapped his limbs around Andre’s body, his damp breath against the back of Andre’s neck, the rise and fall of his naked chest against Andre’s back, the press of his morning erection against the curve of Andre’s arse.

He’d allowed himself to imagine it then, waking up to this every day, what a lifetime with Jev at his side could look like; it’s then that the thought had got it, had infected him in a way that by the time he’d noticed it, had already spread like a cancer, making every interaction painful.

“No,” Andre repeats vehemently, pushing the thoughts of Jev’s body heat and the strong hold of his arms around him aside. “Jesus, Jev, I wouldn’t try and-“ he starts, but he cuts himself off, looking away. No, there’s no use of pleading for his honesty when the sole reason Jev is here is because Andre couldn’t tell him the truth. He curses under his breath, clenches his teeth. His head aches from the tension in his jaw. He glances back at Jev, but Jev has returned to staring out across the pool, across the garden and the darkness behind the shadow of the wall.

“She’d be okay with it.”

Andre swallows, thinking he hasn’t heard right. He shakes his head, trying to clear his thoughts, turning fully towards Jev. Jev looks over his shoulder, but he isn’t really meeting Andre’s eyes.

“She’d be okay with it,” Jev repeats. He sighs, a long, slow exhale. “We talked about it; if that’s what would make you stay in the team.”

There’s only static in Andre’s head. There’s literally nothing he could reply to that. The naiveté behind the offer, the sheer selfishness. Andre can feel his heart break all over again. It makes it hard to swallow around the renewed lump in his throat. He shakes his head, turning away from Jev towards the house.

“Please make sure the glass door is shut when you go to bed.”

Andre lies awake for long hours staring at the ceiling, listening to the flutter of the curtains in front of the open windows. He glances at the clock on the bedside table when he hears the sloshing of water, the sound of Jev’s wet feet on the stones outside, the doors shutting quietly. Night passed 2am a while back. Andre turns over, buries his face into the pillow, hugs it close to himself. He passes out like that.

He wakes in that grey hour before dawn, the colours inside washed out by the palest hint of light creeping over the hills in the distance. He shivers; night has cooled down the air somewhat, the soft draft ghosting over his naked skin raising goosebumps in its wake.

Then there’s the heat of hot, damp breath, the mattress shifting under the weight of another body.

It feels like a dream, like a nightmare even. Andre feels disoriented, nausea rising in his stomach under the unexpected dipping of the mattress, his mind drenched in the effects of the alcohol his body is still trying to work off.

“What are you doing?” he mumbles into the pillow, turning his head to the side to chance a look over his shoulder.

Jev has crawled onto the bed, over Andre’s body. He has undressed, only the clingy fabric of his black boxer briefs a stark contrast to his pale skin. Jev dips his head, his hot exhale preceding the soft touch of his nose along Andre’s spine, the soft rasp of his stubble. He makes a shushing noise, crawling a little further up the bed. His knees press against the outside of Andre’s thighs, pinning him in place.

“Jev, don’t,” Andre says weakly. He doesn’t want to fight this, it isn’t fair. Not when it’s everything he’s dreamt about, in this very bed too so often: Jev’s warmth shielding him from the cool draft, Jev’s weight bearing him down into the bed, anchoring him, Jev’s lips. It’s not fair at all.

He allows it.

For long, drawn out moments he allows himself to want this, to entertain the thought of turning over, of drawing Jev down on top of him, claiming his mouth, claiming his body like Jev is so willing to offer.

For a long moment he thinks it’s what Jev really wants, that one fuck is all it’s going to take to make Jev forget about anyone else, about that they are rivals, about the family he’s building in Paris, about the happiness Andre witnessed first hand himself exude from every pore of his body. That one night in each other’s arms is going to turn back time and let them start over with a happily ever after waiting for them at the end, a couple championship titles as garnish.

It’s a futile thought. It’s nothing more than wishful thinking.

“Would you leave them? For me?” Andre asks.

Jev’s silence says it all.

Andre closes his eyes, willing away the new wave of tears he can feel welling up, to hold them at bay until he’s done the necessary. “Then get the fuck out of my bed.”

The night air is colder in the absence of Jev’s body heat. The door doesn’t slam behind him, but the echo as it falls into the lock is as loud as a gunshot.

By the time Andre drags himself from his bed in the morning, Jev is long gone.


End file.
